By ,

The premise is approached head-on, with the grace and care of a car crash. And like a car crash, it all happens so fast… and then it’s over. However, Keller’s trite jab is actually a blessing in disguise, for it spares the audience any more of her narcissistic rhetoric than necessary. She attacks with such condescension and apathy, you’d think she was involved in a bitter custody battle with the subject. To hear the vain musings of a self-obsessed diva is not what the reader is here for. They are expected to be entertained, enlightened and hopefully even a little inspired. Regrettably, what they get instead is dark, demeaning and distancing.

The author weaves in and out of her subject with such frequency, one would think she was writing while simultaneously watching TV, texting her friend and cooking dinner. She simply doesn’t seem focused… or even interested for that matter. And yet, there is a strong aura of pretentiousness here, as if she enjoys hearing herself speak. Writing for the sake of one’s own self-esteem is not writing. It’s therapy. In this respect, the author should be compensating the reader—not the other way around.

All the editing in the world cannot save this utterly unredeemable pile of refuse. It seems to serve no purpose beyond boosting Keller’s ego. The reader would do well to avoid this at all cost—unless they can charge an hourly rate for their time.